‘If it isn’t Master James!’ he said, his face creasing in deep lines — his only appearance of age — as I asked him for a horse. ‘You’re looking well. Been in the Indies, have you? ’ he asked.
‘Yes, I have.’
‘Thought so by the colour of your skin. Shouldn’t like it myself, but they do say it’s an interesting place.’
We exchanged news, and he assured me that he would tell his wife he had seen me, for she would be pleased to know I was keeping well, and then I mounted the horse — ‘the best the stable has to offer, Master James, a real beauty, with a soft mouth and a sweet temperament, but spirited with it’ — and was away.
The day was cold but bright, with a weak sun shining from a slate-blue sky, and every moment brought with it a new memory as I travelled the familiar road, each one more painful than the last.
I turned into the drive at last and halted for a moment, too overcome with emotion to go on, though whether the emotion was anger, fear or sorrow I could not say. And then I continued up the drive, with the parkland stretching away on either side of me; that same parkland where Eliza and I had played as children, chasing kites, throwing a ball, running, laughing. Always laughing.
I saw the house rising up before me with feelings so painful I could hardly bear them. There was her window, with the vine beneath it; there the terrace where she had walked.
I came to a halt in the turning circle and dismounted. No groom ran forward, as he would have done in my father’s time. With deep misgivings I climbed the steps to the house. The tall windows flanking the doors were dirty. I rang the bell, which clanged with a cracked note. And then the door was opened by a servant I did not know.
He asked my name and then he stood aside to let me in, and I entered the house. As I stepped over the threshold, I saw the same signs of neglect that I had seen outside. There were no flowers in the vases. The mirrors were dull and the console tables were filmed with dust.
I was shown into the drawing room, and I was overcome once again with memories as I saw the familiar wallpaper and the Aubusson carpet. I stood a moment looking round, and then my eyes came to rest on my brother. He was heavier than the last time I had seen him, with the signs of dissipation already on him. His skin was an unhealthy colour and his eyes were dull. His clothes had an unkempt look, and as he rose to his feet, he almost fell back again. I smelt his breath and knew that he was already drunk. He righted himself, smirking as he said, ‘Well, well. James. The prodigal son returns. Our father is dead — ’
‘I know.’
‘Then what are you doing here?’ he asked.
‘You know why I have come.’
‘To ask after that harlot who was once my wife, I suppose,’ he said.
I took a step towards him and he laughed, then poured himself a drink. He waved the decanter towards me in invitation.
‘Not at ten o’clock in the morning, I thank you, no,’ I said scathingly.
‘You are as self-righteous as ever,’ he said mockingly. ‘I see the Indies have done you no good. It seems that not even foreign climes could make a man of you. So, what do you want to know?’
He sat down, lolling in his seat; I doubt if he could have sat upright.
I had intended only to ask him where she was, but in the familiar surroundings where the memories of Eliza were all around me, from the vases that she had filled with flowers, to the carpet on which she had danced, all my feelings rose up inside me and my anger poured out of me in a torrent.
‘Why did you marry her? You were never in love with her. Why did you ruin her life? Why did you take her from me? ’
‘Because she was rich. Why else?’ he said. ‘The estate was encumbered and we needed her money. But you know all this.’
‘But why Eliza?’ I demanded. ‘Why not some other heiress? Some woman who would have sold herself happily in order to gain a respectable name and an old estate? Someone old enough to have given up on all idea of love, or someone too practical to look for it in the first place? Why Eliza, who would be crushed by such a marriage, her health and happiness destroyed?’
‘Why go to all the trouble of courting a stranger when Eliza was right here?’
‘Did you have no feelings for her? No tenderness? No pity? You had known her all her life. Did you have nothing inside you that said, “No, I will not do this. Not to Eliza”? ’
He looked at me as though I was speaking a language that was unknown to him and then said, ‘No. Not at all.’
‘How could you! How could you do it?’
He took a drink.
‘How you do rant on! Anyone would think I forced her to marry me at gunpoint. She knew what I was, and yet she married me anyway. She deserved what she got.’
‘If you were not my brother, I would call you out,’ I said, shaking with rage.
‘If you were not my brother, I would throw you out,’ he returned.
‘You are welcome to try.’
He reached out his hand to the bell.
‘Ah, I see,’ I said scathingly. ‘You mean you would have someone else throw me out.’
‘Of course. That is why I have servants. To do the things I cannot, or will not, do myself.’
I mastered my emotion, for it was doing nothing but hurting me and amusing him.
‘Then tell me this, and I will go,’ I said. ‘Where is she now?’
He shrugged.
‘I have no idea.’
‘But you must have. You must write to her from time to time — ’ He laughed in derision. ‘At the very least you must have an address to which you send her allowance.’
‘I did, to begin with, but no longer. She made her allowance over to someone else several months ago.’
‘What do you mean?’
‘She sold it, or gave it away.’
I was horrified.
‘And you allowed this?’ I demanded.
‘It was her money. She had a perfect right to give it to anyone she pleased,’ he said calmly.
‘But why should she do such a thing? She must have been coerced.’
‘If she was coerced, it was by necessity. She was always extravagant. I have no doubt that she lived above her income and then, when her debtors pressed her, she had to have money quickly and so she sold her allowance.’
‘She will not have received a tenth of its value, and without an allowance, how is she to live?’ I asked.
‘I have no idea,’ he said carelessly, getting up to pour himself another drink.
‘And you do not care,’ I said. ‘Have you no compassion in you at all? She was your wife, Harry. Your wife!’
‘And she betrayed me,’ he said, with the first hint of emotion I had heard in his voice. He had no sympathy for her, but he had plenty for himself.
‘Because of your cruelty,’ I said.
‘Cruelty! I gave her everything,’ he snapped.
‘Everything? You gave her love, friendship, affection?’
He laughed at me.
‘I gave her something better than that. I gave her a town house and plenty of clothes.’
‘Eliza could not live without love,’ I said.
‘Love? Is that what you call it?’ he asked derisively. ‘Her seducers gave it another name.’
I could bear it no longer.
‘You have no idea where she is?’ I asked him.
‘None at all.’
‘Then give me the last address you have for her, and I will conduct my own enquiries.’
‘I cannot remember it.’
I was not going to leave without finding what I had come for, and so, angry and impatient, I picked him up by his coat and said, ‘Then you had better think harder.’
He knew it right enough, and, seeing I was serious, he gave it to me, and then I took my leave of him. I stayed only long enough to speak to the servants and call on the tenants who remembered me, and then I set out for town.
Monday 16 December
The rain continues. London is awash with i
t. The pavements are dirty and the roads are muddy. I was almost knocked down by a brewer’s cart as I went out this morning, and I only narrowly avoided a rearing horse. I returned to my club where, to my surprise and great joy, I saw Leyton, sitting by the window and looking the same as he had done last time I saw him, apart from a new moustache.
‘Whatever induced you to grow the thing?’ I asked him with a smile as, having clapped each other on the back and asked after each other’s health, we sat down together, prepared to while away the morning by reacquainting ourselves.
‘It is the fashion,’ he said.
‘Nonsense! I have not seen a single man with a moustache since I set foot in England.’
He looked sheepish, and said, ‘If you must know, Brandon, I am married.’
‘Ah! I see. And your new wife likes moustaches?’ I said.
‘It is for her I grew it. I find it a confounded nuisance, to be honest. It itches. But she likes it, and so it stays.’
I was happy for him, and I said so. He smiled and said that he had been fortunate, more fortunate than he deserved.
As we talked, I could not help thinking that, if life had been kinder, Leyton and I would be two lawyers together, plump and prosperous, and both married to women we loved. Instead of which, I was a soldier, hard and lean, and looked older than my years, whilst he looked younger. His face was soft, and there was still a look of innocence in his eye. The world had dealt kindly with him, and it showed.
‘You must come to dinner,’ he said, when we had talked ourselves to a standstill. ‘Caroline is eager to meet you, and I believe we may gather together sufficient friends to make your evening enjoyable.’
‘It will be enjoyable even without additional company,’ I said. ‘It is good to see you again.’
Our talk then moved on to my family and Eliza. Leyton hesitated as he asked after her at first, but his ready sympathy was engaged when he heard of her fate, and he was able to recommend a man who could help me to find her if I should not be able to find her myself.
‘I have used him before in one or two cases where information was essential. He is good at finding people,’ he said.
I thanked him and we parted, he to return to Caroline and I to begin my search for Eliza. I went to the address my brother had given me, that of Eliza’s first seducer, Sir William Rentram, but he was out. I declined to state my business, but said that I would call again on Tuesday.
Tuesday 17 December
I went to Sir William Rentram’s today and found him at home. He was in his dressing gown when I arrived, though it was close on midday, and he had a sore head, but he agreed to speak to me. He could tell me nothing of her, however, for he had not seen her since they parted. He claimed that he had treated her well and that she had been happy with him for as long as their liaison had lasted. Whether it was true or not I had no way of telling, nor did I care. I only cared about finding her, and to that end I asked him what had become of her when they parted.
‘She left me for another man when my interest began to fade,’ he said.
‘And his name?’ I asked.
He shook his head.
‘I have no idea. A foreigner, I think. A Frenchman. You know what Frenchmen are like. They have a way with women. He set out to win her, and as far as I know, he succeeded.’
‘But you do not know his name?’
He thought, but then shook his head again.
‘No, I cannot recall.’ He looked at me speculatively and said, ‘What business is it of yours, if you do not object to my asking?’
‘I am . . . a family friend,’ I said. ‘I am concerned about her. I want to make sure that she is well, and to assist her if she stands in need of it.’
He looked at me thoughtfully for some minutes and then said, ‘I think his name was Claude, Claude Rotterdam or some such thing. Not Rotterdam, but something like it. He used to live in Berkeley Square, in a rented house, I believe.’
I thanked him for the information and made enquiries at every house in Berkeley Square, but only one was for hire, and that had had an English tenant for over a year. I asked after the Frenchman in a number of clubs but I could find no one who could give me any information about such a man and I returned to my club in low spirits.
Saturday 21 December
It was a relief to dine with Leyton tonight and forget my troubles for a while. He had assembled a small party, but they were all interesting people: Mr and Mrs Carlton, an entertaining couple who were known to Leyton through his business; Sir John Middleton, who had just come into property in Devonshire, a few miles north of Exeter; the Doncasters, who were cousins of Leyton, with their two daughters; and the Prossers, with their daughters.
Leyton’s wife was a pretty, lively woman, and the two of them seemed very happy together. The mood was cheerful and the conversation good-natured, ranging from family affairs — Sir John’s cousin had married a widower and had had two daughters; the Prossers’ oldest son had just had his first child and Mrs Carlton’s sister was engaged — to the state of the East India Company.
After dinner, Miss Doncaster played the harp and her sister sang. It was a convivial evening.
At the end of it, Leyton’s wife gave me several hints as to the desirability of the Misses Prosser, but Leyton turned the conversation aside, for he knows I can think of no one but Eliza.
1783
Wednesday 8 January
After several promising leads, my enquiries have led nowhere, and I am still no closer to finding Eliza. I thought that when I found the new owner of her allowance, I would find some useful information, but the allowance had already changed hands several times since she parted with it, and he had no knowledge of her.
I decided, this morning, to call upon Sanders, the man Leyton recommended to me, as I could not think of anything else to do. He seemed a reliable man with a good deal of experience in finding people, and we agreed on a fee. Now it remains to be seen if he earns it.
Friday 14 February
Alas, there has been no progress. Sanders has done all he can, and so we have parted by mutual consent.
Thursday 20 February
I dined with Leyton again this evening. He, Sir John Middleton and I are becoming fast friends. It is a relief for me to have some cheerful company, for without it I would be sunk in a continual gloom. I have resisted Sir John’s good-natured efforts to find me a wife, and this evening I felt I owed him some explanation for my reluctance to marry. I hinted at an unhappy love affair and he, good fellow that he was, promised me that he would not tease me about any more young ladies.
Thursday 26 June
I ran across Parker at my club today, and we took great pleasure in discussing our lives, for we had not seen each other for years.
‘I saw one of your old servants the other day,’ he said. ‘Dawkins. A handsome fellow, and what a size! I was always in awe of him.’
He pursed his lips and shook his head.
‘He is not ill? ’ I asked.
‘No, not that. The fact of the matter is, Brandon, he has fallen on hard times. He left your father’s employ soon after you left and secured the position of butler to the Yarboroughs. He married a respectable woman who was the Yarboroughs’ housekeeper, but she became ill and he gave up his position to look after her. His savings dwindled, and after her death, he was left with large debts. I am afraid to say I came across him in a sponging-house.’
I was horrified.
‘Which one?’ I asked.
He told me, and I resolved to go and see him as soon as I could and assist him if possible.
Friday 27 June
I went to visit Dawkins this morning. The sponging-house was a run-down building in a poor part of town, and walking through the other inmates as I searched for him was something of an ordeal. Although some were well-dressed and waiting only for friends and relatives to bring them the necessary funds to release them, others were hopeless.
I saw Dawkins at last and told him how sorry
I was to find him in such circumstances. After some natural shame in being found in such a position, he was pleased to see me, and he was glad that I remembered him. I offered to pay his debts, but he was too proud to let me do so. I promised him I would try to find him a position, and I left him much happier than I had found him.
I walked back through the sponging-house, trying not to look at the wretched women and children who had been detained there, but I stumbled over the uneven floor, and as I righted myself, I caught a glimpse of the bluest eyes I had ever seen. I started, and my heart began to hammer in my chest, for I thought they were Eliza’s eyes. But then I took in the woman’s wasted face and bloodless lips, her emaciated frame and her scanty hair, so different from Eliza’s thick tresses, and I knew that I was mistaken.
And yet her eyes, her eyes . . .
And then they turned towards me and they locked on to my own and they looked into my soul and I let out a cry, for it was Eliza, my Eliza. But in what a place! And in what a state!
And then she was in my arms and I was cradling her against my chest and she was smiling up at me and we were lost to all else, for she was my Eliza and we were together again.
‘It is a dream,’ she said, her eyes never leaving mine as she clutched at me with weak hands. ‘But oh! What a pleasant dream.’
‘No dream,’ I said, rocking her in my arms as I tried not to weep. ‘It is real. I am here, Eliza. At long last I have found you.’
‘You came for me. I knew you would,’ she said with a sigh, leaning her weight against me.
She was so fragile that I scarcely dared embrace her and I gentled my touch. Her wasted body told me what was wrong with her even before she coughed, holding her handkerchief to her mouth and taking it away covered in blood.